" But he finds solidarity here, linking himself with all those quiet types who looked upon blank surfaces with expectation, those who mark objects to erase themselves, who dissolve in the bliss of work. Pinch raises his brush, leans forward on the balls of his feet, floorboards creaking. From the corner of his eye: all these painterly tools, a kaleidoscope of colors, his companions. Is that tragedy? That the peaks of my life are entirely inside? Other people - those I so craved - mattered far less than it seemed. Or is this what I pretend? As the tide of sadness flows closer, he returns to work, misplacing himself there, though it’s his own image taking shape before him. "

― Tom Rachman , The Italian Teacher